


Who I am

by SapphireHost



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: ..i think, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Gore, Explicit Language, Gen, seriously... gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-07 11:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1897119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireHost/pseuds/SapphireHost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But when that intolerable Grim Reaper had his chance to capture Lord Kishin, he faltered. It's understandable. Asura was his son, after all. Our wonderful Lord Kishin used this opportunity to escape. ...Later, when the smoke had cleared from the epic final battle, it was shown that our glorious Lord Kishin had won. Asura had defeated the Grim Reaper." (Chapter 4)</p>
<p>When it's illegal to be a Weapon, Meister, or Witch, Soul Evans finds himself hiding from everything he wishes he could be... that is, until two strangers arrive in the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EAter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAter/gifts).



> Woot! My first "Soul Eater" fanfiction!!
> 
> EXTREMELY IMPORTANT NOTE: I've only seen the anime. HOWEVER, I have looked up a lot of facts about each character (especially facts only stated in the manga) to try and make it as close/real as possible. Changes made (including Maka's mother's name) were made for a reason. However, if I have made some sort of change that goes unexplained, please let me know.

           There are many ways to get sentenced to execution here. Every crime is punishable by death to a different degree. If you’re lucky, you’ll be sentenced to lethal injection, but that’s usually reserved for people who’ve brutally serial murdered, raped, created genocide –really any of the more typical forms of crime. The electric chair goes to those who deal or do drugs. Guillotine and hangman’s noose are fan favorites. They go to the petty white-collar criminals.

       The worst crime, as expected, gets the worst punishments. Torn apart by four horses, stampeded, tortured (either physically or mentally) to death, really the most grotesque stuff. Despite all these methods, the late Lord Kishin always favored punishing those guilty of breaking the anti-daemon laws to a “good, old-fashioned death”.

       I remember the first time my mother brought me to a celebration. I must’ve been… 7. Yes, that’s right, I was 7 years old. I remember because it was the same year I first began hiding from my own execution.

       We walked along a road stained with dried blood until the original black of asphalt became light brown with dark brown, almost black, intersecting circles. Those days, the Kishin was still freshly dead, so his –it’s?- madness clung to the air in thick, humid patches. Unlucky citizens, also on their way to the celebration, would sometimes find themselves walking face-first into a dense fog of madness, only to fall and convulse under it in a seizure of pure insanity. My 7-year-old mind found this odd display funny. My mother did as well.

       When my feet began to hurt too much to walk, my mother carried me to our destination. A light oak stage, specially built for such occasions, stood tall in front of us. On the stage stood a woman in a black tank top and camouflage cargo pants. Two men in suits were just finishing tying the taut ropes attached to her arms to their respective opposite sides of the stage, so that she was forced to stand with her upper limbs in an angular, curved “X” over her chest. My mother made a comment about it being a “beige letter soon stained scarlet”.

       The woman onstage stood, tall and proud, surveying the ever-growing crowd around her. Her platinum pixie cut blew in the light breeze, making her look like a character from an action cartoon. The “X” displayed muscles built of necessity and years of work.

       A lady in a navy suit took the stage, and I found myself immediately disliking her. Her arms were too skinny to have ever seen any hard work. Her pointed glasses sent two kinds of glares towards the woman standing tied to the platform, who returned the glare with an even, cool gaze. An unafraid oak tree staring at a tidal wave of hatred, knowing its end would be brought forth through a dark-blue clothed entity, but standing strong against it nonetheless.

       “Ladies and Gentlemen,” the lady with glasses began with a smirk. “Thank you for gathering here today.” Shouts of excitement erupted from the crowd that I hadn’t known grew around my mother and I. The lady checked a clipboard she held on her hip to one side in a similar fashion to how mothers would hold their babies. “Today, we carry out the punishment given to a Bernadette Albarn. Mrs. Albarn was charged and convicted of not only being a Meister, but using her powers in tandem with a Weapon.”

       At this, Bernadette’s face evolved into a prideful, beaming grin that sent a venomous chill through many members of the crowd. Boos and insults rained on her from her place on the stage, and yet she continued sharing that beam with all who stood before her. I don’t know why I began smiling, but something about her expression was heartwarming. As her gaze swept across the crowd, emerald orbs found my eyes. I smiled wider at her. Her grin faltered, a look of shock crossing her features, before the forest fire in her brightened further. She nodded at me and continued moving her stare along the crowd.

       I realize now what exactly she had been shocked at, but back then, I just thought she was surprised to see a friendly face in a sea of hatred.

       “As you all know, this violates multiple sections of the anti-daemon laws. Therefore, in the spirit of fairness and our late Lord Kishin, she has been sentenced to the highest form of execution.” My gaze shifted back to the tidal wave that stood, clipboard in hand and on hip. Her chocolate eyes became ferocious, predatory sparks that reminded me of the convulsing bodies I saw on the way here. A pang of fear hit my heart as my mother, and the people around her, lowered to the ground to pick something up.

       “So, without further ado, may the stoning begin.”

       A few seconds passed without event, each person not wanting to be the one to go first. Eyes scanned all others’ to ensure that they wouldn’t be the only pair committing the act.

       The first rock, a shiny white one with a jagged edge, flew in a high arc from someone at the front of the crowd. The white stone, glittering from whatever sediments it contained, hit her straight in the eye. Bernadette’s head was pushed to the side from the force of the rock as shouts and cheers once again roared from below her.

       I will never forget what happened after that first rock was thrown.

       She took her time, Bernadette, before her face fully looked back upon the crowd. Her forest-green eyes gleamed as she shot a look of condescending pity down at her thrower.

       “Oh! Before I forget!” The tidal wave lady added, turning on her heel back towards the stage. My mother handed me a rock, a look of humor in her eyes. It would dawn on me later that this was a common joke done during celebrations. They hadn’t been waiting for the first to throw, they’d wanted to ensure only one person threw a rock. A ripple of laughter roared through the crowd.

       “Ma’am,” tidal wave began, her chocolate bob bouncing slightly as she turned sharply towards the lady in the center of the stage, “do you have any last words?”

       The woman slowly turned her head towards the microphone held out to her. The smile never left her face as she leaned forward slightly to speak.

       “Fuck you.”

       The tidal wave reared back slightly. She made to move the microphone away, but Bernadette continued speaking, the words pouring from her mouth even after she was sure no one would hear them.

       “Fuck you, for thinking that just because someone can see you for what you truly are, they deserve to be punished. Fuck you, for thinking that a person is not only guilty of being different, but is guilty BECAUSE they’re different. Fuck you, for letting Asura brainwash you into thinking that Lord Death was the bad guy. Fuck you! For condemning all those who want to make the world better for assholes like you. Fuck you. Fuck you! FUCK YOU!” She screamed, all her anger and hatred pouring from her like the blood that now cascaded down her arms and neck and teeth, which were slowly being hit, one by one or two by two, out of her mouth. I dropped my rock in sheer horror when I realized what everyone was doing.

       I will never forget the fact that -from the moment I first saw her onstage to the moment she died from blood-loss and head trauma- that her pride and smile never once left her face.

       I fainted in my mother’s arms. I only remember one thought of mine that day, a thought I would later hold for another strong woman who would arrive in my life 9 years later.

        _That is the coolest woman I’ve ever seen._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul is brought back to the present and his dread.

       The opening speech for the Anniversary of Asura –a day held on the date of Asura’s “untimely” death that celebrated (a real celebration this time) his life and accomplishments- ended in tandem with Soul’s flashback. He stood from the plastic chair hidden in the wings of the stage. The pianist straightened the black tuxedo his father had handed him two days ago and prepared himself for the practiced walk that his father had drilled into him for as long as the boy could remember.

       “Now, please give a warm welcome to this school’s own prodigy pianist, Soul Evans!” The white-haired boy took a deep breath before composedly sauntering onto the stage. The audience, hidden in the darkness behind a curtain of powerful lights, remained absolutely silent, allowing the echoes of Soul’s footsteps to act as a sort of pre-show for the music to come. The ruby-eyed 16 year-old didn’t mind. He preferred silence to the chaotic murmuring that usually accompanied people in a high-school auditorium.

       The white-haired boy sat on the familiar cushion of a piano bench as the spotlights lit up both him and the surrounding stage. He cracked his knuckles, replacing the original pre-show of footsteps for random staccato that fit his musical style much better. There were only two parts of this dreaded anniversary he appreciated.

       Tense silence filled the room as Soul slowly lowered his hands to the glistening piano keys. The smooth texture of the first note of his composition rested underneath one of his carefully positioned fingers, yet he allowed himself to pause. He knew, if he were to point his red irises towards the crowd, that the audience members would sit with baited breath as he caught them –hook, line, and sinker- into believing this performance would frighten them, shock chills up their spines, and dot their arms with goose bumps.

       The unfortunate part was, although Soul didn’t see the hype, he’d always catch someone immediately after the show rubbing heat into their arms or blinking a little too quickly. He dreaded the possibility that his music could push people further into the ever-thinning madness that the world was left to deal with, so, instead, he ignored them. He could do nothing, however, to keep the musical community from noticing. It was only a matter of time until he earned his nickname: Soul Eater. The thought process behind the nickname was obvious: the music he created swallowed the souls of those who listened further into the drooling jaws of gnawing madness. At least, it was obvious to the chaotic minds of the musical community. Insanity and creativity create the most beautiful trains of thought.

       The first note in the boy’s pieces; the reason the crowd sat in nervous anticipation. The prodigy on stage was well known to begin a piece of music with a haunting note that resonated and remained imprinted in the memories of the onlookers throughout the entire composition. Most people praised him on his ability to leave such an impression so early in the performance. Others chastised him for one reason or another, but what “artist” doesn’t receive unwanted, undeserved, or unreasonable criticism?

       Muscle memory began leading the pianist through the composition, allowing his mind to wander.

       His school had asked his parents a month ago if Soul could write a special piece in commemoration for the late Lord Kishin for him to play for the school’s annual Anniversary of Asura. His parents’, in a not uncommon show of pride for their son’s ability, accepted on his behalf and then left him no choice in the matter. He was their star child, the heir to the Evans’ family business. For him to refuse a show –especially one of such high “importance”- would be disgraceful at best, suspicious at worst. They’d never leave such an opportunity to his brother, because even though Wes might have been good at a violin, his playing was too melodic. No, compared to the dark, borderline chaotic arrangements the white-haired pianist created that entranced all who heard him in this madness-riddled world, one could see why Soul Evans was the prodigy.

       It was always and only the piano that he chose to master. There was something special to Soul about having every building block laid out in front of him in order to construct his next piece. The piano didn’t force its players to learn any special tricks to get certain notes. It laid everything out in a line in front of it, in a simple order, and allowed the musician to work without jumping through hoops like some sort of monkey or brass player (as Soul liked to joke at parties that it was impossible to tell the difference). Soul’s father used to tell his son bedtime stories inspired by Soul’s skills at the piano and his adamant refusal to play anything else. The stories always began with a musically inclined boy; they always ended with Soul sound asleep with happy, contented thoughts about his lovely instrument. Over the years, the devotion became pure routine and the love became tolerance and nothing more.

       Soul decided later that it was the pressures of hiding, the stress of knowing that one wrong word to one wrong person could reveal his secret, that made his previously colorful anticipation for playing the ivory instrument wash out until it was as blank and monochrome as his hair color. His life had been as carefree as the music notes, always dancing up and down along the staffs, but then he had to cover up any evidence of what he was and slur through the lines, covering any individualism he claimed in a past, younger life. He’d become different, which led for the music to write itself -in his handwriting- differently.

       Playing the piano always felt the same physically, however. The way that the keys felt under his fingers never changed. So, too, did the flow from one bar of music to the next, and the change from fortissimo to pianissimo and back within four eighth notes -forcing him to suddenly change from practically banging the keys to lightly touching the ivory, only to continue slamming his fingers into them shortly after- hadn’t changed between the time when he first began playing the piano and sitting on the school’s auditorium stage. However, when he discovered what he was, it marked the end of when his own heart inspired his music. How could he trust his heart to compose when it had cursed him by pumping that traitorous blood through his veins? The crowd never saw a difference.

       Only one person ever cared enough to notice.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you hate when you're bad at something, but you feel like you have to do them anyway?
> 
> That's how I feel about Chapter notes/summaries


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul has another flashback. This time, to when he was 8.

I sat on the floor of my bedroom, holding my head in my hands as I leaned back against the bed. The madness that consumed the world faded with every passing year since Lord Kishin’s death, but spells of insanity wormed their way through people’s minds like a parasite every now and then. The pockets of madness that used to physically change the air had thinned until madness became a consistent, if thin, veil constantly surrounding the people of the world. The influence of the Kishin’s “rule” wasn’t so easily discarded, but life was considerably better than the version I heard about in his history class.

       I twisted the heel of my small, 8-year-old hands over my ears, willing the screeching to stop.

       “Go away,” I weakly commanded the madness-induced shaded person crouching in front of me. It sat on its haunches, looking at my hunched, cowering form the way a scientist looks at its subject. No part of its body was strictly identifiable. I knew from experience that if I tried to focus my eyes on any one part of it, the body part under inspection would shift like an amoeba. It never consisted in one shape, this humanoid object in front of me, but it always took one form.

The figure tilted its head and smiled, sending shivers down my spine. I begged it to leave me alone. As the pleas fell and fell onto non-existent, and therefore deaf, ears, the hope that maybe, just maybe, it would leave this time this time this time slowly began to fade. Tear after tear marked paths down my face as I slowly drowned further, further, further in the invisible eyes of the thing’s gaze. With every plea, the creature’s smile widened. Everything about it -the predatory gleam of its sharp teeth, the fact that gray specks danced across its surface like static, the fact that it seemed content to watch the 8-year-old boy in front of it- seemed wrong and horrible.

       I could see it clearly. The way the creature reached its hand out, almost tenderly, to take hold of my face, caressing it once. Then, suddenly yet with jagged precision sending a shaded, static thumb into my eye socket, twisting its hand in a practiced motion, effectively removing the liquid covered crimson orb from its place. I screamed as I both saw and felt my right eye fall, bouncing slightly when its path was stopped by the still connected nerve. Now, I could see both the creature’s toothy smile (the lone feature of its otherwise blank ovoid face) and my right pant leg. It didn’t help that the hanging eye was swinging –back and forth, back and forth- gently from its nerve, adding onto the need to vomit from pain with a layer of motion sickness. I was forced to watch as the hole in my head dropped, dropped, dropped dark red onto the jeans to my eye’s left -now it’s right, now it’s left again. The scent of iron filled my nose as a small drop ran down my face and right below my nose before settling between closed lips, leaving a trail of slimy, liquid crimson along the way. The creature smiled as it-

       I gasped, the frightening scene previously playing in his mind snapping away from me. I rapidly began blinking to prove that both fiery-colored eyes, now extinguished in a flood of tears, were still safely seated in their sockets. Attempting to scoot away from it only made me realize me back was pressed so tightly to the bed that I would probably find red marks later. The shadowed figure’s grin spread further.

       “Please, just go away,” I continued to beg. Making a run for it wasn’t an option, the creature crouched between me and the door, and there was no chance I could overpower it, so all that was left was to sit and hope it’d go away. I knew it wasn’t truly there.

       But it was hard for me to remember that when it’s digging its nails into my stomach, drawing blood immediately. I heard my 8-year-old voice cry out before the creature put a hand over my mouth. My crimson eyes watched, wide with horror, as the creature lifted it’s bloodied hand up to its own mouth. Even its voice was filled with uneven tones and static as it shushed me and my whimpering. His already bloodied hand clawed at my stomach, leaving valleys of blood and bolts of pain in its wake, until all the skin and muscle was peeled to the side in tan and red and black mounds. Glistening, steaming organs, dark red with blood and life, became visible, causing me to shriek into the muffling hand. Static fingers delved into the glossy, moving mass of tissue, creating a sort of squishing, squelching sound. I almost fainted from the feeling of the foreign object moving, searching through my organs, but the sheer terrors of watching something first reveal and then search through my insides had paralyzed me too deeply for something as blissful as sleep. The creature closed its hands around what I assumed to be my stomach, and pulled, creating a trail of interconnecting organs as they were ripped –one after the other- in a line out of me with the sound of tearing tissue and more of that intolerable squishing. The being opened its mouth to reveal a tongue as sharp as its claws and-

       I shuddered again. I knew my internal systems were probably still intact, and if I could stop blinking, I’d check, but the prospect of another horrifying vision kept the ruby orbs from either remaining open or shut.

       “You can’t win, Soul Evans.” It’s voice, ranged from a terrifying bass to an ear-splitting soprano that reminded me faintly of the way I wrote and played music, taunted. “They’ll find out what you are, and when they do, they’ll do far worse than anything I’m capable of.” I straightened as sudden anger, rising from the pit of my still-intact stomach, solidified every muscle it touched until it spat from my mouth.

       “Shut up,” my 8-year-old voice warned with newfound courage.

       “How disappointed will your parents be, huh? Finding out their star child, the one meant to carry on the family business, turned out to be nothing more than a-“

       “I said shut up,” I spat. The thing’s grin became a teasing, menacing smirk.

       “They’ll drag you through town, parading your disgrace, until you’re on the same stage that stupid woman was on last year. No one can love someone like you, after all you are an abomination, but that’s not even mentioning the hurt and betrayal in your grandmother’s eyes.” It leaned forward, until it was inches from my face, “How betrayed will your dear, old Grammy be when she finds out all that love and compassion was wasted on you.” Its smirk became feral as its tone grew malicious, “You’d be better off dead. Stupid, waste of space, Weapon.”

       Before I knew it, a black scythe sliced through the creature; it’s body dissipating upon contact.

 _It was never there,_ I reminded myself as I stood, panting, over the spot where it hadn’t crouched. I forced myself to calm down as all earlier traces of fear dissolved with the static figure.

       It was only then that I realized my grandmother had entered the room.

       She stood, gaping at her 8-year-old grandson from the doorway, her hand held up to her mouth in shock. My eyes widened, and the curved blade retracted into my right arm again. Grammy always appeared by my side whenever madness tried creeping in my head. She was the only one I knew who tried to help me through the sudden outbreaks.

       “I’m sorry,” I breathed in her direction as new tears began pooling at the corners of my eyes. This was the part where she tells the police on me. I’d seen just last year what happened to those convicted of breaking the anti-daemon laws. I knew what would happen to me when Grammy fled the room, screaming at the abomination that was her grandson.

       That’s why I startled slightly when she slowly and quietly shut the door behind her before kneeling in front of me and hugging my small, sobbing frame.

       “Shhh,” she comforted, “there’s nothing to be sorry about. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

       “B-but I’m a I’m a I’m a,” I couldn’t bring myself to say it, and the flowing tears made talking for me difficult.

       “Most people don’t remember what it was like before that Asura became Lord, but I do. Weapons and Meisters weren’t killed or shunned. Those Meisters who found Weapons usually helped people by getting rid of those who’d hurt the innocent. Both of them were good guys,” she began, “what you’ve got is a gift, not a curse.”

       It took me a few minutes to stop crying, but my grandmother’s words helped.

       “But…” her tone became cautionary as she took my shoulders in her hands and pulled back to look into my eyes. Her blue orbs were serious, “listen carefully. I know you know the price for this gift of yours.” I nodded my head, images of a blonde woman flooding my mind. “Good, then I don’t need to explain to you how important it is that you never, under any circumstances show anyone this form or tell anyone what you are. The Evans’ family has no trace of Weapon or Meister blood in it, so no one should suspect you, but I _need_ for you to promise me that you won’t do _anything_ to make anyone think otherwise.”

       I had promised. To this day, my grandmother was the only living person who knew my secret.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally written in third-person, but was edited to be in first-person shortly before posting. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE TELL ME IF THERE'S ANY TRACE OF THIRD-PERSON LEFT IN THIS CHAPTER.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul is forced to hear the story of why he's an outcast.

Soul didn’t remember finishing the piece, taking a bow, waiting to be dismissed, or doing any of the other standard after-performance rituals, but when he finished his memory, he was sitting next to his mother who was telling him how well he played tonight. He nodded his head in a silent thank you as the school’s principle took the stage.

            “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for coming to celebrate this day with us,” she spoke, her words echoing through the many speakers set up all around the audience in an incomplete circle of sound. Cries of “shut up” and “take off your top” followed her as she continued.

            “Before the next memorial performance, I’d like to take a brief moment to remind everyone why we’re here today.” Soul swallowed the urge to groan. _Here it comes,_ he thought to himself.

            “8 years ago, our beloved ruler, the Lord Kishin Asura, died of unknown causes after shutting himself from the rest of the world.” She began, setting the stage as she paced along the school’s version. A hush rippled across the crowd as students bowed their heads in respect. The pianist’s white hair lowered with his peer’s various colors, but only to ensure that he didn’t raise suspicion. “But let’s not remember him for his demise. Instead, let’s honor him for his achievements in life.” Cheers echoed around Soul, but he didn’t join in. After a quick survey, Soul found that it was mostly parents whose voices could be heard. The students’ heads remained down for the most part. _Good,_ he thought to himself, glad that he wouldn't have to even pretend to ever cheer for the demon who'd condemned its own kind. _  
_

            “Hundreds of years ago, our beloved ruler began an enduring struggle with his own father, the Grim Reaper himself.” Boos and hisses chased the deity’s name. _Does every sentence of hers need a sound effect?_ The pianist thought to himself. Luckily for him, the crowd listened with unwavering attention for the rest of her history lesson. “The Grim Reaper was strong; his job alone made that quite clear, but Lord Kishin had spent years developing his own skills to match his father’s powers. Battle after battle, leading for the accursed Reaper to claim innocent lives and villages, ensued until the ‘Great Battle over Asura City’ began.” Soul remembered hearing about this battle. It served as a turning point in the Shinigami War.

            “The Lord Kishin sat meditating, as he often could be found doing, on the concept of fear. You see, our great Lord found fear a fascinating subject. Being a son of the Grim Reaper, he had no reason to feel fear, and yet, to better understand us humans, he allowed himself the disservice of experiencing the debilitating emotion. Anyway, the Great Asura sat silently, debating and theorizing on the horrible emotion, when he was brutally attacked, in a cowardly surprise strike, by his own father.”

_Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh,_ the pianist thought to himself. His grandmother often told him the real stories behind most of these “lessons”. Asura had been a coward who was so afraid of his own shadow that he fell into a different kind of darkness. That poor excuse for a "Lord" had allowed the emotion to chew him from the inside out, until he was nothing more than a husk of his original self. There was a time when Asura deserved to be called “great”, but that time had ended with the Reaper’s.

“Luckily, the powers of a Kishin are mighty, and Asura was able to react quickly enough to keep from being taken by surprise. A raging battle ensued. However, through underhanded tactics and tricks, the Shinigami had weakened our Lord Asura enough to strike a fatal blow.”

The crowd sat on the edges of their seats. Soul repeated his previous mantra.

"But when that intolerable Grim Reaper had his chance to capture Lord Kishin, he faltered. It's understandable. Asura was his son, after all. Our wonderful Lord Kishin used this opportunity to escape. The Reaper might have fought unfairly, but he was still a Shinigami, after all. He did hold a lot of power, and Lord Kishin knew that he was too weak to fight him.”

Soul fought the urge to vomit as the people around him began to mock the Reaper for his inability to kill. The red-eyed pianist understood, better than anybody apparently, that this world had no idea what it was like to _not_ want to kill. This universe, the place that Asura created, held no fear of loss, so it also held no hesitation to create loss. He had always admired the stories his grandmother told him about the Shinigami and his ways. The Grim Reaper had cared for his only son, even when it was obvious that Asura was willing to kill both him and everyone around him. In the end, it was that inability to get past his love that killed the Reaper.

“As our ruler hid, he spent time recovering and building an army to help him in his final battle. In order to combat this, the Reaper set up a system of guidelines defining how a Weapon could become a Death Scythe, the _highest honor_ one could achieve.” There was no hiding the sarcasm and taunt in her voice. There was almost no hiding the flash of anger in Soul's eyes.

Laughter burst from the crowd. Soul rubbed his right arm sub-consciously as he chuckled the way he had practiced in the mirror and willed himself to calm down.

“Then, 16 years ago, after hundreds of years of planning and plotting, the final stage was set. Over present-day Asura City, two gods fought for their right to the sky.” The principle smirked with feral, predatorial pride, “but the Reaper had weakened. His fighting was robotic and without feeling. His Death Scythe, a black stick of a thing, hung limply from his hands."  _Heartbreak will do that to ya,_ the pianist (ever the artist at heart) mused sullenly.

“Later, when the smoke had cleared from the epic final battle, it was shown that our glorious Lord Kishin had won. Asura had defeated the Grim Reaper."

Applause and cheers crushed Soul under their weight. _I hate this story,_ the prodigy thought to himself as he forced his hands to produce a small, clapping sound.

“With the death of the accursed Grim Reaper, Asura ushered in a new age of prosperity by freeing our world from fear,” The principle beamed as the predator left the spark that filled her eyes, leaving only pride, “and he began by ridding our world of the traitorous weapons, meisters, and witches. Not much is remembered about the time before the Kishin, due to the blissful freedom from fear blocking out all memories of the times with the emotion,” she smiled, reminiscent of what she undoubtedly and whole-heartedly believed, much like many of the people left in the world, that the time without fear was a Golden Age. “Then, after creating such breakthrough laws as the anti-daemon laws, and after using the witches’ souls to create devices that could detect meisters’ and weapons’ souls in their immediate vicinity, Lord Kishin locked himself from the world, bringing us to why we’re gathered here-“

Soul saw his opportunity. Many of the people around him sobered (a few already had tears forming. _Madness is weird,_ Soul would later decide) with the mention of Asura’s death. Why shouldn’t the people here think he was overly sentimental about their “benevolent” late ruler?

Soul stood, pretending to wipe his eyes with his jacket sleeve.

            “Excuse me,” he growled between fake sobs as he left to the bathroom. He heard whispers, but the pianist knew he wouldn’t be disturbed. There was no reason for anyone to expect him of being a weapon.

            After all, he was an Evans. No Evans had ever become a “freak”, so why should he?

            He and those witnessing him leave asked themselves that question as he fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry if this chapter isn't written as well as the others. I haven't found anyone who's willing to pre-read it, I write best when I'm slightly tired, and ugh (etc.).
> 
> Please comment with your thoughts, it really does mean a lot to me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two strangers appear on Soul's doorstep.

"Are you sure we should?" The blonde girl asked the taller boy standing to her right. The moon, with its wicked, cartoony frown, had passed its highest point (in relation to the city) much too long ago for the skinny girl to need to worry about people overhearing. The siblings through adoption stood before a large door, which connected to an even larger house. _It’s almost like a castle,_ she mused to herself as she awaited her brother’s answer. The taller boy closed his eyes in concentration, his brow furrowed with the effort of a bicyclist who hasn't ridden in 5 years.

 _We really need to practice more often,_ he thought to himself. He briefly recalled how his sister’s ability, when tuned, once saved their entire family, but he let the images and emotions pass by without another thought. They'd have more time to practice when they found somewhere safe to stay. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he focused on the glowing, invisible orbs behind the door he stood before. 

"There are five people in the house total, but there's definitely something odd about…,” he concentrated on a specific wavelength, noting how it slightly reverberated, “that one," the older boy pointed to a space he couldn’t see somewhere above the door. His sister shot him a look and sighed.

“That doesn't answer my-"

"Do you trust me?" He replied, opening his eyes and giving his younger sister a level gaze. Once again, the shorter blonde sighed.

"Fine, but that's your last 'Trust' card for this year," he smirked at her.

"I know that. I wouldn't have used it if I didn't think it was worth it. Plan F?"

"F?! Are you sure we can't just-"

The sound of her brother’s pale fist knocking against the door cut her off. The blonde headed girl sent him a glare before focusing her attention back on the door.

The pianist grumbled, turning over in his bed. He'd been having trouble sleeping for the past week. Random, unannounced strangers knocking at the middle of the night wouldn’t help.

"What makes you think anyone is even up?" She asked her brother.

"The peculiar soul had a restless aura around it. I wouldn't be surprised if he hasn't slept in a while." He responded.

"Geez, I need to practice more."

"Probably." The boy let the sound of his fist tapping against the door ring out again.

Soul stumbled out of bed. _God damnit. Who the hell visits at- ...what time is it?_ The pianist looked at the spot on his arm where he normally wore the silver L.E.D. watch his parents had gifted to him two days after they missed his birthday. _Four?! It's freaking four?! What the hell?!_

The girl knocked this time, growing impatient.

"What is taking,” she paused.

“I think it’s a boy.”

“What’s taking him so long?"

"Well, it is pretty early. Most people would be angry having to answer the door at this hour."

"First of all, I was being facetious. Second of all, don't use the phrase 'at this hour'. You have no idea what time it is, don’t pretend like you do. Lastly," She shot her brother a smirk. "If he doesn't want to answer the door for normal visitors, let's see if he'll hurry for a pair of scared kids.”

“Don’t wake up anyone else,” the tall boy warned, knowing better than to stop his sister.

“I know that, but just in case, keep monitoring the other souls.”

The pianist began trudging down the hallways. His room had been built to be directly above the foyer, but had the most hallways to pass to get to the front door.  _This better be important, because I swear to God, if it’s just another-_ his thoughts were interrupted by a new set of hurried knocks and a voice.

“Please! Someone please let us in!” The prodigy heard echo towards him. The voice, female, wavered with the rushed tones of desperation. The knocks were joined by a backbeat, probably the other person in “us”, pushing Soul to quicken his pace with every echo, until he was jogging down the stairs on the opposite side of the foyer as the front door.

“Alright, alright, I’m hurrying. Just shut up or you’ll wake the God damned neighborhood,” he hissed in as loud a voice as he was willing to use. The knocks and pleas stopped.

The girl turned to her brother, waiting for his decision before the door opened.

"You do the talking,” he said, pulling the black beanie further down over his hair. “He’s already heard your voice anyway.” The blond girl smiled at her brother, hoisting the dark red backpack (only differing from her adopted sibling’s in color) higher on her shoulders.

“Fine,” a pause, “Do you want him to call you by your real name or your nickname?” Her brother thought for a second.

“Tell him my real name, but let him know what most people call me. You know I don’t care, so we might as well let him choose anyway.” Maka nodded, smiling comfortingly at her taller brother.

“Whatever you say, Kid,” she replied before turning to the opening front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this chapter for a while, trying to see if I should write it in a different way. I kept writing and rewriting until this was made. 
> 
> What could Maka and Kid be doing at Soul's house? Which one of them is adopted? Is there a purpose to all these questions? 
> 
> As always, feel free to comment with any thoughts on this.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul and the strangers meet

            Soul’s parents hadn’t anticipated any situation where they’d need to open the front door at night. As such, when the pianist opened the entrance, he only had the foyer lights and the dull glow of the moon to illuminate the scene in front of him. It took Soul’s eyes a few moments to adjust to the after-midnight lighting. When they did, he refused to be surprised at the two who stood in front of him.

            A boy and a girl stood on the white-haired teenager’s doorstep. They both looked to be around the same age as Soul, but it was hard to tell with all the dirt covering their faces and clothes.

            The girl, who was slightly shorter than the pianist, “styled” her dull, slightly dark-blonde hair back in a ponytail. She wore a faded black T-shirt with loose jeans, baggy from the wrong size, rather than style, which were bunched at her gray sneakers. Her slightly tanned skin complimented the dark, deep green eyes, which fixated on Soul with the same calculating gaze that he was probably using with her. The boy next to (and above, given that he was much taller) her wore a dark purple tank top and black cargo pants. His dark gray beanie was pulled too far down over his head to see anything except for the tips of his black bangs. The lightest feature about him, other than his deathly pale skin, seemed to be his yellow, cat-like eyes. The irises, rivaling the moon in both brightness and oddity, had two rings separated in color and by a thin, black circle. The inner ring was a darker, dandelion yellow while the outer ring shone with a more neon tint.

            Their eyes widened in surprise when Soul first opened the door, and the girl took a small step back. The pianist chuckled slightly. He saw his reflection every morning; he knew what a night without sleep did to his looks. White hair sent every which way from tossing and turning, unnaturally sharp teeth (which he got away with since most musicians have weird “phases” when it comes to appearances) with pieces of feathers stuck in them (it’s not uncommon for his teeth to ruin a couple pillows a month due to his preference for sleeping on his stomach), but it was his eyes that were probably unnerving the two before him. As though his red irises weren’t creepy enough, the lack of sleep and rubbing them with the heels of his hands made the whites of his eyes bloodshot, until the orbs were rivers of red, pooling into a lake of scarlet with a black dot in the middle.

The girl blinked, composing herself; before she recovered and smiled at Soul, a kind, calm motion that made the white-haired boy’s eyebrow rise. Neither teenager showed any trace of the earlier hysteria the girl’s voice had held, causing the pianist to wonder whether the two were liars or were stricken with momentary madness. He’d be willing to believe either. The tall boy shoved his hands in his cargo pant’s top pockets and turned to look behind himself. He wore a dark purple backpack, which Soul now saw the girl wore a dark red version of, which seemed filled to bursting with miscellaneous gear.

            “Um, hi. My name’s Maka,” the girl gestured to the tall boy next to her, “and this is my brother, Hade.”

            “But everyone calls me Kid.” He finished without turning around. The girl, Maka, nodded at her brother before returning her smile to Soul. She waited a moment before continuing.

            “We were hoping that you could let us stay here for a couple of nights.”

            Soul’s eyebrow rose slightly higher at the duo before him. Maka kept a bright, friendly grin shined at him, while Kid seemed completely fixated on something behind them.

            “There’s an inn a couple of blocks down the road to the right,” the pianist responded, beginning to shut the door when a pale hand shot out and stopped it. The taller boy turned his head so that he could look at Soul from the corner of his eye.

            “We don’t have any money to pay for a night or two at an inn,” he explained, moving his hand off the door and his head so that he was looking straight at Soul.

            “I promise we won’t be a bother. We’ll even sleep in a basement. Can we _please_ stay here for a night?” The girl clasped her hands in front of her, looking towards a corner, probably uncomfortable with the thought of asking for help. Her brother stared straight at the pianist with a curious look in his eyes.

            “You both do realize that citizens aren’t even supposed to open the door this late at night, right? How am I supposed to know that you aren’t thieves or something?”

            “Hey! Kid and I would never-“ Maka was cut off, much like Soul was earlier, by Kid’s hand. Hade squeezed his sister’s shoulder before speaking.

            “No, he’s right. You’d have to be crazy to not be paranoid with a city this riddled with madness.” He turned his attention back to Soul, “what if we give you our backpacks and-“

            “Kid!” Maka gasped at her brother, “but why should we have to-“ Kid cut his sister off again.

            “Don’t interrupt, Maka. It’s rude. We’ll give you our backpacks. That way, you can be sure we won’t take anything of yours,” Soul must have looked skeptical, because Kid kept talking, “what if I give you permission to thoroughly search through all of my stuff as long as you return it all? Would you trust us then?”

            Soul looked towards his shoes, contemplating. On the one hand, his parents would never allow for him to harbor a couple of “street kids”. On the other hand, these two seemed adamant that, for whatever reason, this was the only place they felt that they could stay, and it wasn’t like the big house didn’t have a few extra rooms. Hade must have sensed his apprehension, because he added a few sentences after a short pause.

            “I understand that it’s sudden,” Kid continued, “but we really need to stay somewhere, and we have nowhere else to turn. We can explain everything tomorrow morning if you’ll just let us stay for tonight.”

            The pianist could have slammed the door in their faces. He could have laughed at the mere idea of letting a couple of strangers in to his house. He probably should have told them to find another place to stay.

            But there was something about the siblings standing in front of him that intrigued the pianist. He had never been the stop-and-plan-everything type; the pianist usually went with his gut instinct as to how to live his life. The method’s saved his skin from the Daemon Watch more times than he could count.

            So when the pianist’s gut told him to say “Alright, but only for a couple of nights. Follow me”, how could Soul refuse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I guess I've never figured out how to indent on this site, because I've noticed that some paragraphs indent, others don't, and it all becomes this big, inconsistent mess that I'm really sorry about.
> 
> I promise there'll be an explanation for the whole "Hade" thing. I promise.
> 
> Also, I'll be going to Japan tomorrow for ten days, then, four days later, Band Camp starts. These things all mean that it'll be harder for me to get chapters written, so expect for there to be long pauses between postings. I'm sorry about that, but that's the way it's got to be done. However, I'm supposed to stay up all night so I can sleep on the plane, and I've always written better when I'm tired (You know the old saying, "Write drunk, edit sober"?) so I hope to write as many chapters as possible tonight, add the story to Google Docs, and edit them while I'm in Japan so that I can upload immediately after getting back.
> 
> ...then again, I'm extremely lazy, so I wouldn't be holding my breath.


End file.
